


The Garden of Sevigny

by fajrdrako



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 19:20:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fajrdrako/pseuds/fajrdrako
Summary: Marthe suggests Philippa should overcome her trauma by having sex with any functioning male - or, alternately,  female.





	The Garden of Sevigny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nabielka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/gifts).



> _Reference: **Checkmate** , Part V, Chapter 6._
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> Le corps sans ame plus n'estre en sacrifice

Anger would be a mistake and a weakness: Marthe was as blameless as anyone here, lost as she was in the shadow of their entrapment, that terrible bond of love and flesh which lay between Philippa and Francis, leaving them with no hope and no escape. If Philippa were a different woman, she might have resented Marthe's interference, and her animosity. But if she were a different woman, none of this would be happening.

And as she looked at Marthe's pale, lovely face, with the pain hidden under its passions, she thought: perhaps this was what was left, when a person has lost everything. Pain borrowed from others, seized to escape one's own. 

Had the Dame de Doubtance foreseen this, too, and still gone ahead with her cruel plans? Was Marthe her sacrifice to a greater good? What good could possibly come of this? 

She voiced the thought aloud. "Why did she tie you to us? Why did she make you her messenger? It has brought you nothing but misery." 

"Perhaps so that there will be someone here when you have gone."

She realized then that Marthe was not angry, but frightened.

The sun was still too bright and the garden still too beautiful. It should have been a damp and clouded day; the flowers were joyous around them. Philippa dropped back onto her seat by the sarcophagus and said, her voice a little shrill, "It's all so unfair!"

"Don't be a child," said Marthe, sounding so like her brother — no, her half-brother — that Philippa wanted to laugh. "Fairness has no part of this. Love is never fair."

When Philippa did not answer, Marthe walked around the bench and sat carefully on its further end, keeping a distance between them. Philippa almost said she hadn't been talking about love, but maybe she was, after all. What did Lymond feel for Marthe? Philippa realized she had no clear idea. But suddenly it seemed important not to hurt this brittle, broken women who was both stranger and kin.

"If I did what you said," said Philippa, pursuing a thought, "with other men and all of that, it would only make things worse for both of us. Do you understand that? It's like Jerott drinking to escape your marriage. It doesn't help, and it makes things even more dire."

"It isn't our marriage he wants to escape," said Marthe drily. "It's yours. I'm not sure he realizes that."

"We're a sad lot," said Philippa. "You and me and Francis and Jerott. You love them both and here we sit, two planets in opposition. I have what you want — Francis's love — and it's hurting him. You would be right to hate me for it."

"Do you think so?" said Marthe, with that characteristic crease appearing for a moment between her eyebrows. "I do not hate you and never could. Why did you say it's only Jerott and Francis I loved?"

All this sunlight was giving Philippa a headache. She tried to make sense of what Marthe had said, and her mind refused to follow to a conclusion. It was filled with images of Guzel and ships and the Sultan's harem and Mikal and people like herself who were too blind to see what was actually happening around them sometimes.

She felt tired, and helpless, and stupid. She gathered her thoughts together. "What do you want?"

"I want you and Francis to be alive, and well, and happy. Some days," Marthe said archly, "It seems too much to ask."

"And you think we'll never be happy if we are apart?" 

"What do you think?" countered Marthe.

"We can't escape love," said Philippa. "Whether specific or abstract. It's there, like the sun and the air and the ground under our feet, whether we ask for it or run from it. It's inside us. Being with men I don't love wouldn't fix me. I don't need a functioning male animal. I need — " she broke off because she didn't know what she needed. If she knew, maybe it would make the situation a little more bearable. Or probably not.

And because of what Marthe had said… or not said… she forced herself to look directly at her.

Marthe said lightly, as if it didn't matter, "Do you think it might work if you chose a functioning female animal? I assure you, it can be wonderful. And it might not hold the same terrors for you."

Philippa folded her hands in her lap. "I don't think that intimacy with people I don't love will help me." She sounded unexpectedly prim, and cleared her throat. "I like you and respect you and wish you well, but I don't love you."

Marthe was not surprised. "You are a stubborn woman," she said. 

"But…" said Philippa. 

She was silent then, and Marthe raised her rather remarkable eyebrows.

"I might kiss you," said Philippa. "To see how it was. To see if... comfort… might be possible."

Nothing could be read in Martha's eyes, dark and cool and foreign. "Kiss me, then," said Marthe calmly.

Philippa leaned forward, shutting her eyes because that made it easier. It was not like kissing Francis might be. She expected it to be light and gentle, something sweet and ephemeral, but Marthe's strong hands gripped her shoulders and held her still as their mouths pressed together, forceful, fearless. Philippa found her heart beating faster in something that was neither passion nor fear. 

Philippa did not pull away. It was Marthe who let go, and moved away to put some distance between them on the bench.

"Thank you," said Philippa. "That was…"

"An act of charity on your part?" 

"No. An act of hope, even though I feel hopeless. Can you forgive me?"

"I can forgive you anything." Her smile was quick, but genuine. "Though I think we should not mention this to Jerott."

Philippa almost laughed, taken off guard. Marthe gave her hand a quick squeeze, and then left her as abruptly as she had appeared, in a graceful swirl of Lyonnaise silk.

Moving slowly, Philippa picked up her pen, ink, and letters, thinking. Though Marthe was wrong about many things, she was not wrong about what Francis was enduring.

To find the right decision was easy. It had been staring her in the face. To accept it was not easy at all; but it was necessary.

It was time to go home to England.


End file.
